


maybe it's danger (maybe it's tonight)

by rayguntomyhead



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Intake Kink, M/M, Manipulation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Transformers Plug and Play Sexual Interfacing, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-19
Updated: 2020-06-19
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:07:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24802054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rayguntomyhead/pseuds/rayguntomyhead
Summary: The glow of neon burns behind them, the low hum of ancient electric, shadows jutting in black vectors beneath them. Historical keepsakes, mottos and signs and emblems of the Primes hanging over the join of their frames, strange bold phantasms in the dark of the room.“Are you sure?” Getaway says, edges of his voice rough.Or two versions of Getaway and Tailgate intake kink
Relationships: Getaway/Tailgate (Transformers)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 19





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For DesdemonaKaylose and neveralarch, who were understanding and lovely when the plague hit my work and I wasn't able to finish this for their thing. I'm finally done with that job, and... better late than never? But anyway, thank you. 
> 
> This whole idea started sprawling into an unexpectedly longer fic than planned that actually had plot but I'm tired of looking at it and also just tired so have the porn bits and maybe someday the muse will pull all the other disparate pieces together. In the meantime, enjoy fucked up Getaway/Tailgate intake kink inspired by the JRO tweet about how in-universe, Tailgate has "the most sensuous - the most scandalously erotic - mouth of all." 
> 
> Two different versions because I couldn't decide which I liked best.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Version one

The glow of neon burns behind them, the low hum of ancient electric, shadows jutting in black vectors beneath them. Historical keepsakes, mottos and signs and emblems of the Primes hanging over the join of their frames, strange bold phantasms in the dark of the room.

“Will you?” Getaway says, edges of his voice rough. He’s braced over Tailgate, the flare of his pauldrons shifting leans his weight forward. “This doesn’t…” he turns slightly away, head dipping and visor dimming, “it's not too much, is it? I didn't think _you'd_ be put off, but..”

He looks away. Tailgate pushes up, helm craning up as he stares straight until Getaway’s optics fix on him again and snaps open his intake cover. Just because mecha in this time seem to have a thing about intakes like his, didn't mean _he_ was going to balk even if it didn't seem really... charge-inducing. This definitely isn’t the strangest thing he’s read about on the datanet, practically mild. 

And anything that can make Getaway look at him like that, with that kind of want… and Tailgate’s ready for this.  No more daydreaming about what it would be like to have more than just a few clumsy tactile fumbles in the junkyard, no more fingering his own ports while he stares at the colorful blur of sleek frames writhing together on a staticky screen. No more boring lectures scolding him for wanting what his caste would never sanction. This is _his_ life, his second chance, his frame to do with what he wants.

“Yes,” Getaway breathes, optic band flaring as it fixes on Tailgate’s face. “You want this too, don't you.”

He dips his digit just inside, rubbing the vulnerable join of plating and protoform, just shy of the jagged, delicate notch of gears inside. Long legs notch tighter on either side of Tailgate’s hips, weight pinning him down as Getaway leans forward and the wild gleam of his optic band, _Tailgate_ put that there. _Tailgate_ made him look like that. He cycles the rings of his intake in a wave, showing them off, compresses them long and slow like he’s sucking for the last drop of energon and Getaway groans.

“They didn’t understand why I wanted this,” he hooks his digit harsh into Tailgate’s intake, digging between delicate rings before jerking it back, ”couldn’t stop thinking about having someone like you, getting their mask off, all vulnerable and open and letting me _take_ them but you… you’re _special_.” 

He turns just back enough that Tailgate can catch his gaze. “You’re not like them, you want this too, you _trust_ me, don’t you?” 

There’s so many things he could say, reassurances he could give but Tailgate doesn’t say any of them, just locks optic bands with Getaway and slowly, slowly pushes his intake up, taking Getaway’s fingers deeper, and deeper, past bands to delicate tubing until he almost chokes on them. 

All the air in Getaway’s vents hisses out and his optic band flares. 

“Oh,” he says, soft, and Tailgate can feel the slow flare of his field as it finally relaxes away from his plating, tentative filaments reaching from the corona to mesh with Tailgate’s own.

“Do it,” Tailgate says. 

Getaway’s field snaps, flaring out into Tailgate sharp enough to hurt and he does. His digits thrust in as deep as they can go, butting up against where the very last band softens into tubing. Tailgate chokes, convulses on the bed, it’s too much too _fast,_ but Getaway doesn’t stop. Just grinds his digits in, greedy, groping at every tender bit of his inner protoform, every touch an electric bite. 

Tailgate’s hand starts to reach for Getaway’s arm but he clenches it, digs it back into the berth. He sucks in a vent, makes his intake relax, lets Getaway take him. 

“So good to me, it’s like you’re made for this,” Getaway says. “That’s why I found you, even with you trailing around beyond Cyclonus like a sad little lost turbofox, I knew there was something about you.” 

Something ugly squirms in Tailgate’s spark, cold, red optics gleaming in his mind but he’s not thinking about that right now, he’s not, and he presses harder into Getaway’s grip. 

“Yeah, you need it, don’t you sweetspark?” Getaway says, pulls out to trace the knife-thin rim of Tailgate’s intake with the smooth, cold pad of a single digit, gentling, touching Tailgate’s face like he’s delicate as fine crystal; precious, treasured. “Needed someone to touch you and no one would would, would they? Can’t get me out now, can’t stop me, have to just lie there and take it.” 

He trails his digit slow, over and over thin plating, and it’s almost unbearable, the raw spark against inner sensors.  There’s nothing sweet, nothing safe, Getaway’s not treating him like something to be _coddled_ and _patronized_ and he floats in the sweet, triumphant thrill of it, everything in him going limp and pliant because this is _him, he’s_ the one giving this to Getaway. _He’s_ the one that Getaway wants, wants enough to take it like this. It still hurts, still chafes and burns but this, it's enough.

“You know I think you can open this more for me, can’t you?” Getaway says. “I’m gonna give you another one.”

The tip of a third digit prods against the straining edge of Tailgate’s intake, it won’t fit, Tailgate shakes his head, digit tips digging into the sides of his intake, because it’s too much, he doesn’t want–

“Everyone else might think you’re weak, cowardly, but I know the real you,” Getaway says, pressing inexorably in, in, “I know you can take whatever I want to give you, and you love it don’t you? Love letting me do this to you.” 

It hurts, it hurts, but Tailgate survived so much more, he’s tough, and he grinds out some kind of helpless noise around Getaway’s fingers, and tries to relax the spiral of his overtender intake, let Getaway inside. He’s done this before, at least for maintenance, he can do this.

“Frag,”Getaway says, harsh, like it’s dragged from his vocalizer. “ _Tailgate.”_

He moves faster now, doesn’t stop once he gets the third digit inside but just starts working the fourth until the edges of Tailgate’s intake burn with it.

“ _Yes,_ that’s it, _”_ Getaway says, “Going to stretch you open. Every time, further and further until you can my whole fist inside your sweet little hole. Going to wreck you, stretch that pretty intake until you forget it ever wasn’t open for me, ready to take me anytime I want. Every time you fuel, everyone who sees you will know what a wanton little thing you are for me.” 

HIs field whips and churns, violet dark and smothering. Every flex of his digits sends stinging shocks through the hot, tender gape of Tailgate’s intake and it’s almost, it’s so _much._ But Getaway doesn’t stop, reaches his other hand to scrape demanding at the port tucked low on Tailgate’s hip.

“Open,” Getaway hisses, and Tailgate transforms the cover away before he’s even aware of sending the command. _Finally_. 

Without looking Getaway shoves his connector in, fat prongs straining to fit and Tailgate didn’t think, he didn’t think at all that sometime over the millions of years that plug size changed and it’s too _big._

He tries to restart his motor routines, move a hand up to push Getaway back as he clears his vocalizer in a static of snow, cycles it again and again but Getaway doesn’t even seem to notice, just shoves even harder until his jack seats in Tailgate’s port with a _click._ Energy pulses out, thick and hot and drugging, heavy bursts that fill him up until there’s nothing else but Getaway’s want, and Getaways’ need _._

Somewhere, Tailgate can vaguely feel his frame convulse, his vents wheeze as they struggle to cool overheating components. Every touch of plating burns, the only thing that’s real in this strange, hazy, place he’s floating in. There’s supposed to be a reciprocal connection, he thinks, isn't there? But Getaway doesn’t make a move to unspool his jack  – just hums soothingly, and slowly lets the flow of energy ebb.

It’s enough Tailgate can vent again, but his vocalizer still lets out desperate shaky bursts of involuntary static with every pulse of Getaway inside him. The feel of it, lighting up every circuit electric, it's so much better than the jolts of electricity from a stolen 'charger he teased against his ports in the dark of the disposable barracks. This is _Getaway_ , doing this with _him_ , and even the stinging ache in his intake isn't enough to dull that.

“So good, so good like this. You'll let me have one more thing, won't you Tailgate?” Getaway says, slowly easing his digits almost out from Tailgate’s intake, brings his other hand up to trace down the seam of his chest plating, up, down, up, and he isn’t- he doesn’t mean- 

“Want to touch you inside here, too,” Getaway says, voice smooth and soft as molten silver, “let me see that beautiful spark of yours, let me feel it.” 

And that’s… his _spark_? 

“C’mon sweetspark,” Getaway leans in, croons hot against his audial. “I want to see the spark of my conjux-to-be,” and– conjux _,_ that’s– _conjux,_ that’s–

Tailgate arches helplessly, backplates fixed in an electric overlapping arch of plating and cables but Getaway just moves his hand with him, keeps his digits curled inside. Tailgate’s chest splits, pulls up the line of code to crack himself open slowly in a transformation sequence that’s never been activated outside a medbay, sliding open further, and further. 

“ _Yessss,”_ Getaway hisses, hand sliding over the wet condensation-coated tremble of Tailgate’s plating faster than he can cycle his optics, and his _hand_ is there, his hand is _inside Tailgate_ and he can’t think, he’s can’t move. Can’t do anything but lay there and feel the sharp edge of Getaway’s digit against the fractaled crystal of his spark chamber, the delicate wiring, and he’s open and bare and there’s nothing he can do and it’s perfection and the pit and there’s nothing he can do. 

He needs to overload, he needs nothing to touch his plating ever again. He’s strung tight and vibrating, a humming wire an inch from snapping as Getaway leans in, the sharp planes of his handsome face light unholy with the pale light of Tailgate’s spark. 

“ _Yes_ ,” Getaway says again, wild and strangely, darkly, triumphant and the his faceplate presses against Tailgate’s _soul,_ sending it flaring bright and sparking, whiting out everything in a blaze a agonizing, perfect, blankness Getaway’s field binding tight around him, pinning him in place as Getaway’s charge pours into him, and his digits curl in Tailgate’s intake and with a tearing snap Tailgate drops into darkness, the echo of Getaway over him, around him, wanting him. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is the alternate version that I originally wrote but couldn't decide if I liked. Blanket warning for general fucked-upness.

“Youneed it, don’t you sweetspark?” Getaway says, the smooth, cold pad of a single digit tracing around the knife-thin rim of Tailgate’s intake, touch delicate as he’s fine crystal; precious, treasured. “Needed someone to touch you and no would would, would they?” 

He trails his digit slow, over and over thin plating, and it’s almost unbearable, the shiver and spark of neglected sensors. 

“ _Getaway_ ,” Tailgate says, plating flaring and fluttering to let the heat pour out of him, hitting like a shock against the cold steel of the berth beneath him. They’re in Getaway’s hab of course, because like Pits is Tailgate bringing this back to his and- back to his own habsuite. The glow of neon burns behind them, the low hum of ancient electric, shadows jutting in black vectors beneath them. Historical keepsakes, mottos and signs and emblems of the Primes hanging over the join of their frames, strange bold phantasms in the dark of the room.

_One day, an autobot will rise from our ranks and use the power of the Matrix to light our darkest hour. Until that day, til all are one_ is emblazoned on one wall, _The Matrix of Leadership is not found, it is earned_ on another

“Yes,” Getaway says, “only me.” 

He dips his digit just inside, rubbing the vulnerable join of plating and protoform, just shy of the jagged, delicate notch of gears inside. Long legs notch tighter on either side of Tailgate’s hips, weight pinning him down as Getaway leans forward and the wild gleam of his optic band, Tailgate put that there. Tailgate made him look like that. He cycles the rings of his intake in a wave, showing them off, compresses them long and slow like he’s sucking for the last drop of energon and Getaway groans, pushes almost hard enough to hurt.

“Saw the first time you took this off, you know,” he says, dragging his digits in the same maddening pattern around the rim of Tailgate’s intake, and the bands inside flex again, reflexively, hungrily trying to pull Getaway deeper. “Just snapped it right off there in the bar, baring this pretty intake like a cocky piece of shareware. Tempting them to come and just take what they wanted, practically begging them to fill you up,” and that’s not _fair_ because Tailgate hadn’t known. Hadn’t known until Getaway pulled him aside, comforting hand on his shoulder, letting him know what he’d done, what that action was advertising. None of the _others_ had bothered to stop him from embarrassing himself. 

“You didn’t mean to do it though, did you sweetspark?” Getaway says, rough edge of static catching the edge of his vocalizer as he presses in harder, just on the sweet edge of pain, heady and drugging. “Didn’t mean to flaunt this in front of half the ship.”

“Not- I didn’t _know,”_ Tailgate protests, squirming under Getaway’s bulk, and he couldn’t move if he wanted to but he doesn’t, wants to stay right here with Getaway over him, and filling him and whispering sweet, filthy nothings. Heat flushes his exposed cheekplates blue and he hadn’t been, he really hadn’t know.But it’d got him this, open and pinned, Getaway staring down like he wants to frag him to shutdown. 

“I know, I know” Getaway says, digit dragging circles around inside the entire rim until oversensitive plating aches and Tailgate shudders, cailpers flexing harder in his throat now, convulsing over, and over, helplessly, grasping for something that isn’t there. 

“You wouldn’t do that to me on purpose,” Getaway croons, “let them all see what’s mine. You wouldn’t betray me like that, would you?” and Tailgate’s spark squeezes in his chest, sharp and burning. 

“No, no, Getaway, I’d never,” he says. “I want _you_ ,” because he does, he wouldn’t do that, wouldn’t let all those other bots with their scorn and their stuck-up self-righteousness see something _intimate._ He just hadn’t _known,_ hadn’t known and he still doesn’t understand what is making Getaway’s stare burn through him like that, doesn’t understand why Getaway’s still pushing his digit further and further in to Tailgate’s intake, scraping the cold metal tip over in juddering bumps over sharp edged gear teeth. 

No one’s ever wanted this, looked at him like and his processor spins, drunk off want and engex. 

Getaway hums, edges another finger in past the tight metal rim and what is he _doing_? It doesn’t hurt, not really, only the aching stretch of something that wasn’t meant to stretch and Tailgate’s intake is so full, full of Getaway, and the hot, bitter metal taste of plating. 

“You’d never let anyone else in here, would you? Let anyone take you like this,” Getaway says. “Let them feel the tender inside of you, so open for me. You’re gonna let me do whatever I want, aren’t you? Want to feel your insides flexing around me, ’til I spread them so far apart they can’t do any thing but convulse against me, helpless.” 

His second digit’s inside Tailgate, filling him, stroking deep inside and sliding slowly back out against every overstimulated sensor node just to plunge roughly back inside. He frags him over, and over, steady, and unyielding, like he’ll bend the world to his will to have Tailgate, to touch him like this. 

“ _Getaway,”_ Tailgate says, and it’s almost too much. “More.” 

“Yes,” Getaway breathes, optic band fixed on Tailgate’s face. “You want this too, don't you. The others may leer at you, but you’re _mine,_ going to push my digits inside that naked little intake of yours, slide my jack so deep you feel like you’ll never get it out, beg me to fill you over and over.” 

“Yes, want this, w-want you to frag me,” Tailgate says, arching up, curving the arc of his chassis. “Want your digits, your jack, your charge, every part of you inside me.” 

The others had liked it when he said stuff like that, but none of them looked at his frame like _that_. His vocalizer stutters and fizzes static and he doesn’t even bother to clear it when he sees how Getaway’s visor flares hungry. No one’s ever touched him like this, made his spark swoop and sing like free fall in his throat, and now Getaway’s here, and Getaway _wants_ him, might even want something _more_. _._

“Are you _sure_?” Getaway’s digits pause, even as he looks away. “This doesn’t…” he turns slightly away, head dipping and visor dimming, “it doesn’t turn you off, does it? They didn’t understand why I wanted this,” he digs his digit harsh into Tailgate’s intake, before jerking it back, ”couldn’t stop thinking about having someone like you, getting their mask off, all vulnerable and open and letting me take them but you… you’re _special_.” 

He turns just back enough that Tailgate can catch his gaze. “You’re not like them, you want this too, you _trust_ me, don’t you?” 

There’s so many things he could say, reassurances he could give but Tailgate doesn’t say any of them, just locks optic bands with Getaway and slowly, slowly pushes his intake up, taking Getaway’s fingers deeper, and deeper, past bands to delicate tubing until he almost chokes on them because he is, Tailgate _is_ different, he’s not like those other ‘bots. 

All the air in Getaway’s vents hisses out and his optic band goes almost white. 

“Oh,” he says, soft. Tentative fingers reach from his field as it finally relaxes away from his plating, teases at Tailgate’s own ’til he’s greedy for more, more of Getaway’s field, and his touch and his want.

“Do it,” Tailgate says, and it’s barely left his vocalizer before Getaway’s field snaps, flaring out into Tailgate sharp enough to hurt and he does. His digits thrust in as deep as they can go, butting up against where the very last band softens into tubing. Tailgate chokes, convulses on the bed, it’s too much too fast, but Getaway doesn’t stop. Just grinds his digits in, greedy, groping at every tender bit of his inner protoform, every touch an electric bite.

Tailgate’s hand starts to reach for Getaway’s arm but he clenches it, digs it back into the berth. He sucks in a vent, makes his intake relax, lets Getaway take him. 

“Getaway…” Tailgate says. He shifts his head from side to side, but Getaway doesn’t move, keeps his digits buried inside Tailgate, stroking. 

“So good to me, it’s like you’re made for this,” Getaway says. “That’s why I found you, even with you panting after Cyclonus, I knew there was something about you.” 

Something ugly squirms in Tailgate’s spark, cold, red optics gleaming in his mind but he’s not thinking about that right now, he’s not, and he presses harder into Getaway’s grip. 

“You need more, don’t you?” Getaway says, gently. “Just my digits inside you isn’t enough is it.”

“Want your jack,” Tailgate says, and it’s been so long, his port swollen and desperate beneath the cover and he wants to pop it, but he can’t wait. “Want you to frag me for real, Getaway, c’mon, want you inside.” 

“Aren’t I already inside of you? Inside that gaping little intake of yours? So needy, I bet this is what you wanted when you were sucking on the cygar in front of all those big mecha, wanted one of them to use it for what it’s really for.” 

“Not them,” Tailgate says, because he’s not, he’s not, “Just for you,” because _slag_ Cyclonus, Tailgate doesn’t give lead shanix about him, ignores the insidious little thread that tries to goad him otherwise, he’s here with _Getaway._ “Want your jack in my port, _please.”_

“That’s it, so desperate,” Getaway says. His field whips and churns, violet dark and smothering. Every flex of his digits sends stinging shocks through the hot, tender gape of Tailgate’s intake and it’s almost, it’s so much. But Getaway doesn’t stop, reaches his other hand to scrape demanding at the port tucked low on Tailgate’s hip.

Tailgate transforms it away before he is even aware of sending the command and Getaway shoves in, prongs straining at the port he didn’t think, he didn’t think at all that sometime over the millions of years that plug size changed and it’s too big and he wants it _out._

He tries to restart his motor routines, move a hand up to push Getaway back as he clears his vocalizer in a static of snow, cycles it again and again but Getaway doesn’t even seem to notice, just shoves even harder until his jack seats in Tailgate’s port with a click. Energy pulses out, thick and hot and drugging, heavy bursts that fill him up until there’s nothing else but Getaway’s want, and Getaways’ need.

Somewhere, Tailgate can vaguely feel his frame convulse, his vents wheeze as they struggle to cool overheating components. Every touch of plating burns, the only thing that’s real in this strange, hazy, place he’s floating in. There’s supposed to be a reciprocal connection, he thinks, isn't there? But Getaway doesn’t make a move to unspool his jack – just hums soothingly, and slowly lets the flow of energy ebb. 

It’s enough Tailgate can vent again, but his vocalizer still lets out desperate shaky bursts of involuntary static with every pulse of Getaway inside him. The feel of it, lighting up every circuit electric, it's so much better than the jolts of electricity from a stolen 'charger he teased against his ports in the dark of the disposable barracks. This is Getaway, doing this with him, and even the stinging ache in his intake isn't enough to dull that.

“Frag, yeah,” Getaway says,”That’s it, just let me. You couldn’t stop me anyway, just have to lay there and let me fill you with mycharge until you can’t think about anything else except having me taking you.” 

Energy comes pouring in again, more and more of it, and it doesn’t _stop._ Tailgate’s visor flashes with blinding heat, the almost white flare of it in Getaway reflecting back to him in Getaway’s hungry visor and it’s so good, and it _hurts_ and Tailgate wails. 

“Oh yeah, just let it happen,” Getaway says, “I need this, this is _mine_ now, _you’re_ mine now, aren’t you sweetspark?” 

“Y-yours,” Tailgate forces out, barely able to string words together and there’s digits in his throat, and Getaway in his mind, pressing, caging Tailgate’s muddled personality routines, holding him helpless and it hurts, but he can’t even think and it’s too much and not enough, and he needs to overload, he needs this to end, to never end, ever, ever, he was so alone and now there’s nothing but Getaway and Getaway’s need and Getaway’s grasping. 

There’s nothing sweet, nothing safe, Getaway’s not treating him like something to be _coddled_ and _patronized_ and he floats in the sweet, triumphant thrill of it, everything in him going limp and pliant because this is _him, he’s_ the one giving this to Getaway. _He’s_ the one that Getaway wants, wants enough to take like this. 

“I’m gonna give you another one,” Getaway says, the tip of a third digit pressing against the straining edge of Tailgate’s intake, it won’t fit, Tailgate shakes his head gently, helplessly, because it’s too much, he doesn’t want–

“Everyone else might think you’re weak, cowardly, but I know the real you,” Getaway says, pressing inexorably in, in, “I know you can take whatever I want to give you, and you love it don’t you? Love letting me do this to you.” 

It hurts, it hurts, but Tailgate survived so much more, he’s tough, and he grinds out some kind of helpless noise around Getaway’s fingers, and tries to relax the spiral of his overtender intake, let Getaway inside. He’s done this before, at least for maintenance, he can do this.

“Oh,”Getaway says, and it’s dragged from his vocalizer like he can’t help it. “ _Tailgate.”_

He keeps Tailgate on the edge, filling him up over and over, and he just wants to overload, he needs it, desperately, and Tailgate chokes out, “Getaway, let me- let me- _please_ Getaway, _please please please-“_

“Shh,” Getaway doesn’t stop, still sending merciless pulse, after pulse over hardline, lighting up Tailgate’s circuitry, sending static skittering over every inch of overtender protoform and it’s too much he _can’t._

“So good, so good like this. You'll let me have one more thing, won't you Tailgate?” Getaway says, slowly easing his digits almost out from Tailgate’s intake, brings his other hand up to trace down the seam of his chest plating, up, down, up, and he isn’t- he doesn’t mean-

“Just want to touch you, here, inside,” Getaway says, voice smooth and soft as molten silver, “let me see that beautiful spark of yours, let me feel it.” 

And that’s… his _spark_? 

“C’mon Tailgate,” Getaway leans in, croons hot against his audial. “I want to see the spark of my conjux-to-be,” and conjux– that’s–

Tailgate arches, backplates fixed in an electric overlapping arch of plating and cables and it’s so good, so perfect, and his chest splits, cracking open slowly as a transformation sequence that’s never been activated outside a medbay slowly parts further, and further. 

“ _Yessss,”_ Getaway hisses, hand sliding over the wet condensation-coated tremble of Tailgate’s plating faster than he can cycle his optics, and his _hand_ is there, his hand is _inside Tailgate_ and he can’t think, he’s can’t move, can’t do anything but lay there and feel the sharp edge of Getaway’s digit against fractaled crystal of his spark chamber, the delicate wiring, and he’s open and bare and there’s nothing he can do and it’s perfection and the pit and there’s nothing he can do. 

He needs to overload, he needs nothing to ever touch his frame ever again. He’s strung tight and vibrating, a humming wire an inch from snapping as Getaway leans in, the sharp planes of his handsome face light unholy with the pale light of Tailgate’s spark. 

“Yes,” Getaway says again, wild and strangely, darkly, triumphant and the his faceplate presses against Tailgate’s soul, sending it flaring bright and sparking, whiting out everything in a blaze a agonizing, perfect, blankness Getaway’s field binding tight around him, pinning him in place as Getaway’s charge pours into him, and his digits curl in Tailgate’s intake and with a tearing snap Tailgate drops into darkness, the echo of Getaway over him, around him, wanting him. 

**Author's Note:**

> kudos and comments are <3


End file.
